


Work

by Finfangillian



Category: The Great Gatsby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 06:27:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13405386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Finfangillian/pseuds/Finfangillian
Summary: A short story I had to write for English, involving George Wilson actually getting some business.





	Work

George Wilson sighed, and set aside the oil stained rag he had wiped his hands on. The tattered clock on the wall, which was seven minutes behind, read 1:34, an hour and a half after George had promised himself he would put work out of his mind and go to bed. He had lost more sleep than he would have liked in the past couple of days. Life in the Valley of Ashes was not easy, and he had not had a customer in nearly three weeks. So he was inclined to stay up and work on the client’s car, rather than go to bed and lay sleeplessly until dawn was nearly upon him. 

“George,” Myrtle’s voice interrupted his train of thought, and he looked towards her. She was wrapped in a red robe that he swore up and down was silk (though Myrtle insisted it was just cotton) and her usually well kept hair a tangled mess around her head. “Put the wrench down, and come to bed,” she demanded. Instead of her usual mild annoyance and discontentment, she sounded overwhelmingly irritated. 

“I’m almost done, Myrtle. I’ll be to bed in-” 

“You’ll be to bed now, come on.” Her command was punctuated by a yawn, and she drew the robe tighter around her, uncomfortably aware of the chill in the garage. 

George briefly gave a glance to the wrench still in his hand, and set it down on the floor. His clothes, despite the chill, were sweat stained and clung to him in places. Myrtle’s face twisted in an unpleasant expression that did not suit her. “Let’s go,” she declared, turning and ascending up the stairs. A moment or two later George heard the sound of their bedroom door being slammed shut and he let his head fall forward into the palms of his hand, still stained by motor oil. 

“I can finish it tomorrow,” he mumbled to himself, looking at the Packard Twin Six through his calloused fingers. “I can finish this in the morning,” he repeated, a little louder, almost as if he was speaking to the car. 

George rose to his feet and ran his hands through his sweat-soaked blond hair. He almost felt guilty leaving the car like this, incomplete. But Myrtle wanted him to go to bed, and he could finish the job in the morning. 

He began a slow, shoe-scraping walk towards the stairs. He turned as he reached the bottom, his hand on the lightswitch, sparing the car, and his desolate garage one last look before he went to bed. The floor was cracked, stained with motor oil in some spots, there were a small number of tools, and twice as many torn and stained pieces of cloth strewn about on both the floor and the tables. He smiled softly to himself, and at the car. It was the only pretty thing in the room. George saw a painfully small number of pretty things anymore, even his own wife paid little to no mind to him most of the time. 

George Wilson sighed, and flipped the lightswitch. Ascending the stairs to join his wife, his thoughts wandered back to the car sitting in his garage, and the work he had yet to do.


End file.
